


30 Person of Interest Word Prompts

by Vagabond



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: 30 prompts, F/F, F/M, First Time, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, True Wuv, lots of injuries, must love dogs, rinch chapter 7, variety
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-01-12 14:44:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1189044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vagabond/pseuds/Vagabond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>30 prompts, a bored writer, and the entire cast of Person of Interest to play with. What could go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cut

**Author's Note:**

> So here's a project where I get to look at a word and create a story using whatever characters I want from Person of Interest. This is the first (Root/Shaw related) but I am definitely going to try to work in everyone into 30 prompts. Some might be single character studies based on a word, others might be pairings, I'm pretty sure even the Machine will get to say a word or two. 
> 
> Hopefully there will be something for everyone. 
> 
> Also! Please feel free to comment if you have a prompt of your own you'd like to see. It can be anything from just a word, to a word + characters, to a sentence, to a paragraph. I will entertain any and all suggestions. 
> 
> Prompt 007 - Cut

Blood was everywhere, but Root knew she didn’t really need to worry.

She was in an abandoned warehouse tied to a chair behind stacks upon stacks of empty crates. As she sat captured she marveled over how much junk one warehouse could hold. Why would someone choose to pay to house a bunch of empty crates? Of course she’d asked her captors the second day as they tried to get information out of her through beatings and through less than talented knife work. It had earned her slap to the face that busted her lip. Though she knew it had struck a chord because the big beast of a man to her right grinned when she asked the question. They’d shared a joke. It was quaint.

Now it was day three and her captors had recently finished another round of beatings. At this point she figured she had a couple of cracked ribs, two broken fingers, black eyes, a bloody lip, and shallow cuts all over her body. She hadn’t lost any teeth for which she was grateful, but as Root tilted her head back to stare up at the high ceilings she yearned for the Machine.

 _She’ll save me. She always does. I am her’s and she is mine_ Root insisted in her own mind. Then again, the Machine hadn’t saved her from her current circumstances. She’d have to chalk that up to an error on her part. Somehow she’d missed something the Machine had showed her. Or she had to pay for past transgressions. Maybe that’s what this whole thing was about. The Machine had to purify her, make her blameless, and wipe away all the choices she’d made due to bad human coding. Root had to face who she was before she could become something new.

Gunshots in the distance made her tense as she tilted her head to make use of her good ear. She was still bleeding from the wound on her arm which had been deeper than the rest. Her captors had rushed this time. They weren’t nearly as careful about hurting her and cut too deep. Root’s right arm was covered in a layer of sticky red blood that wasn’t ceasing. She must have been bleeding longer than she initially thought because suddenly Root felt very cold.

There were footsteps though and she had to pay attention. Shaking the fuzziness from her mind she stared ahead with keen eyes, waiting.

Someone appeared and Root felt tears at the back of her eyes as relief flooded her body.

“Shaw.” The name tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop it. A needy sound followed before she let her head fall forward.

There were more footsteps and then she was cut free from her restraints. Better yet, she felt Shaw push an ear bud into her ear and slide a cell phone into her pocket. She was connected again. The Machine could reach her. Her time in isolation was over.

“How did you find me?” Root asked weakly as she heard Shaw curse and felt something being pressed to her wound.

“Jesus, what the hell did they do to you?” Shaw asked and Root liked how angry she sounded. Then again, she liked any emotion she could draw out of the other woman.

“How did you find me?” She asked again even as Shaw wrapped some fabric tightly around her arm.

“The Machine. She gave us a number, you happened to be connected to it even though we were also trying to save someone else.” Shaw finally answered as her arm went around Root’s waist and she was hoisted up onto her feet.

At first Root’s legs gave out underneath her. Three days of being tied to a chair had taken its toll. She quickly regained her balance though and shuffled alongside Shaw, leaning heavily against her.

“Harold? John?” Root asked, grimacing when her ribs got jostled.

“Preoccupied. You’re my problem.” Shaw replied and then went silent. Root glanced at her and saw a certain gleam of determination that told her everything she needed to know. To Harold and John, Root was an afterthought. To Shaw, she was relevant. She liked being relevant.

The Machine hummed in her ear as they made their way out of the warehouse and Root realized it was putting her to sleep. It was singing her a lullaby of sorts. She slumped into Shaw’s car and immediately passed out once the door closed. She was safe, she knew she was safe, and that’s all that mattered.

Later she woke up alone in a hotel room, her wounds bandaged and stitched. Someone had helped her out of her clothes and into clean ones. She was dressed in a loose button up shirt under which her ribs were bound tightly to promote healing, and a pair of jeans. Root sat up on the bed, sore all over, and noticed a note on the nightstand.

 _Stay out of trouble_ it said, with Shaw’s signature scribbled at the bottom.

Root smiled.


	2. Shield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reese is a shield. Finch doesn't like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I was going to write about Bear being a shield and then it turned into this. 
> 
> Prompt 020 - Shield
> 
> Enjoy.

Reese is a shield. 

It is a distinct change from when he was working for the CIA. In the CIA he was taught to dodge. If a gun was pointed in his direction then he needed to move even if someone was standing behind him. The CIA wasn’t interested in protecting individuals as much as it was interested in protecting the country. Its operatives were taught to avoid bullets, not take them on behalf of someone else. That was the job of military men, of the secret service, and even the FBI. They were the do gooders and the ones who defended individuals. 

It always went against Reese’s instinct. He didn’t like moving out of the way when there was someone he needed to protect. There was a case earlier on in his partnership with Kara where he stepped into a room to find a gun pointed at her. He stepped between her and the gun and diffused the situation, but afterward she had yelled at him. ‘The whole op could have been blown’, she snapped after it was over. If one of them dies then the other can do what needs to be done but if both died then the mission would be screwed. 

He never stepped in front of a gun pointed at her again. 

Now that he works for Finch he steps into the line of fire more often than he should. Men, women, children, it doesn’t matter to him. If there is a gun pointed at someone he has been tasked to protect then he will get in front of the gun. 

Sometimes he takes a bullet and Finch will lecture him, but he doesn’t stop. One day he will make up for all of the people he should have protected but didn’t. He would take a thousand bullets if it meant he could sleep easier at night knowing he’d saved someone from being harmed. 

There’s an evening after a number has been saved when he’s back in the library and removing his damaged clothing. He’d been shot, he’d gotten in the way of a bullet again, but thankfully he’d been wearing his vest. Reese draped his suit jacket across the back of a chair and began unbuttoning his shirt. Once it was off he could remove the vest and he did so painfully. The vest dropped to the floor and Reese carefully walked over to a mirror to inspect the damage. 

A large bruise stretched along his side. He poked it and winced but was glad to find his ribs weren’t broken. He’d be bruised and sore but the jacket had done its job and he had kept someone else from dying. It was a successful night. 

He barely registered footsteps behind him and flinched when he felt fingertips that weren’t his gently prodding at the bruise. Reese tilted his head and glanced at Finch who was scowling ever so faintly at the bruise. 

“Mr. Reese, we’ve discussed your habit of becoming a human shield before. Do we need to discuss it again?” Harold’s tone of voice suggested he was not amused and Reese shook his head. 

“No thanks. I know the lecture by heart.” He replied, not in the mood to hear it again. Reese was taken off guard when Finch moved to stand between him and the mirror. 

“Then perhaps I should give you a different lecture.” Finch insisted firmly, eyes trained on Reese in a way that made the operative uncomfortable. 

“Look, Finch-” he began but it turned into a pained noise as Finch pushed a finger against his bruise. 

“I fail to understand how you can still believe yourself to be nothing more than a human shield, Mr. Reese,” Finch began, acting as if he hadn’t just poked Reese’s wound, “I know I hired you to protect people but I expect a certain measure of self preservation.” 

Reese wanted to say something but closed his mouth when Finch shot him a warning look. 

“I know I said we would probably both die doing it, but you seem to be on the fast track and I’m not exactly interested in finding someone to replace you anytime soon. It took me long enough to find you, Mr. Reese. I understand you were wearing a vest but the shooter could have easily aimed at your head or at your thigh and nicked your femoral artery. I know you’re very good at what you do and good at reading situations but I am finding it increasingly difficult to sit back and watch you put yourself into harm’s way time after time as if you do not mean anything to anyone else.” Finally Finch stopped to take a breath. He was pacing now and Reese watched him walk back and forth. 

He knew better than to try and speak up. 

“You mean a great deal to me, John, and as your friend and your boss I am asking you to stop putting yourself into harm’s way when there are other options for dealing with a situation.” Finch exhaled slowly and stopped pacing, looking at Reese who could only stand and stare. 

“Harold…” Reese didn’t quite know what to say. He shifted his weight to take the pressure off of his injury but kept his eyes trained on his friend. What was he supposed to say to that? Of course he put himself in harm’s way to protect people who had lives to live. He was protecting people who would go on to have families, or who would go do great things. Sometimes he protected the wrong people, Elias for example, but over-all he was able to risk his life every day to save people who were better than him. 

“Say it, Mr. Reese.” Finch insisted, stepping closer but staying out of Reese’s grasp. “I can see it in your eyes, your head is spinning and you know what I am trying to get to but you keep holding it back. Say it.” 

Reese’s heart rate picked up and he realized he was nervous. This post-op lecture had turned into something much deeper than he had anticipated. Why was Finch determined to get into his mind and shrink his head? What had changed? He’d stepped in and protected people a million times over but somehow this last time broke the final straw. 

“Mr. Reese.” Harold’s voice left no room for anything less than the truth. 

“They are better than me.” It started out as a soft statement, but Reese felt heat rushing to his face and something akin to anger coiling in his chest. “They are better than me, Harold, and I protect them. I protect them because you give me their goddamn number and tell me to protect them. I risk my life for their’s because I’m already dead so what’s so wrong with me actually living up to it?” He was trembling, his chest was heaving, and he’d felt like everything around him was shifting. 

“I save them because they’ll go and do everything for this city, for this country, and for this world that I can’t.” He was defeated. Reese felt empty. There everything was, laid out between them, and he chanced a look in Harold’s direction. 

Suddenly there were hands on his face and he was almost knocked off balance when Finch’s lips were pressed firmly to his. On the floor of the library is where they ended up, Harold taking John apart piece by piece only to put him back together again. With every kiss, bite, and lick to warm skin Harold told him that he was loved, that he was cherished, and that he was worthy. 

John was lying on his back with Harold’s hands all over him and came hard when he was told to let go. 

For a long time they laid on the floor, Reese’s head pressed against Finch’s still-clothed chest. Finch’s fingers were running through his hair soothingly as he talked about nothing in particular. 

Apparently it was Harold’s turn to be a shield.


	3. Lively

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Aah, Bear. What did we discuss about boundaries?" 
> 
> Finch likes to discuss things with Bear. Bear obliges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found it amusing that Finch reminds Bear of a 'discussion' they had regarding boundaries. It makes me think Harold often discusses things with Bear, so I wrote about it! 
> 
> Prompt 001 - Lively (because what is more lively than a man and his dog?)

Harold enjoys discussing things with Bear. 

Some days they discuss the dog’s behavior. When Bear bit into another first edition, they had a discussion about valuable items. Finch left the book sitting in front of the dog and told Bear to ‘leave it.’ His companion stared intently at him with dark, intelligent eyes, ears forward and attentive. So Finch spent half an hour explaining the importance of first editions, what books meant to him, and why Bear needed to stay away from them and chew on his toys. Sometimes Bear makes a wuffling noise in return and Finch never quite knows if the canine is agreeing with him or telling him to sod off. 

Another day they discuss boundaries, because Bear has none and often decides it is appropriate to approach Finch while he is working and set one of his paws on his leg. How is he supposed to get any work done when those brown puppy dog eyes are staring him down, begging for a walk? As they walk down the crowded New York City street, he explains that boundaries are important and sometimes people – and dogs, for that matter – have to be patient and wait for what they want. Bear just wags his tail and licks Finch’s hand the moment he gets a chance. 

One day they had a lively discussion about music. Finch managed to drag himself away from his computer screens and was indulging in a waltz. Bear followed him, hopping to and fro to avoid Finch’s feet, and when the music crescendo’ed Bear added his voice to the melody. Feeling particularly alive, Finch joined with a hum and ignored the look he received from Reese when the operative took a step into the library. 

When Reese left on his revenge campaign, Harold spent the first few hours in the library talking quietly with Bear. He appreciated the way Bear always seemed to know when he should be calm. Finch was on the floor, back leaning against a wall, and Bear sat between his outstretched legs. 

“He’s gone, Bear. He’s injured and he’s gone.” He said and leaned forward to put his arms around the Belgian Malinois’ neck. Bear whined, his ears moving back, and he licked at the side of Finch’s face. 

Other times, Finch and Bear discussed the dog’s unabashed love of women. Harold was particularly displeased with the dog’s obvious affection for both Shaw and Root. They were dangerous women and he knew he should always be on his guard around them, but Bear’s good will toward them made Finch wonder if they were really the ones he should be worried about. 

“I know you’re just a dog, Bear, but they’re dangerous and you shouldn’t be so amicable.” Finch pointed out from where he sat in his computer chair. Bear was sitting obediently in front of him, head cocked to the side and his ears forward. “You should be more suspicious.” 

Bear barked, whined, and then leaned forward to lick Harold’s hand. 

Finch tried to tell himself it was a lost cause, but he had a suspicion that Bear knew more than he was given credit for.


	4. Awkward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donnelly is told to take the day off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt is 100% dedicated and gifted to Mamahub and LindaO. #UBBF forever! 
> 
> I like to think that Reese at some point would have liked to do this sort of thing. 
> 
> Prompt 014 - Awkward

Agent Donnelly was in a fog. 

The Man in the Suit continued to evade him and Carter. It didn’t seem to matter how many nights he stayed up staring at the case board or how many possible witnesses he spoke with, nothing ever seemed to break. Someone was protecting him. At least, that was the assumption he’d come to based on the fact that no man had ever gone this long without giving him some sort of break in a case. Someone had to be protecting him, because that is the only way Donnelly could fail so spectacularly at locating and pursuing meaningful leads. 

His whole life had become the case, but his superior had called and suggested he take the day off. After Donnelly had insisted he was more than happy to continue his work the suggestion became an order partnered with a threat to pull him from the case if he didn’t take a break. Defeated, he agreed to take the day off. 

So he went out to coffee. He was still exhausted from a week of chasing after a man who was determined not to be caught, and needed the caffeine. It might even help him focus enough to figure out what to do with an entire day off, banned from pursuing the case. Maybe he’d ask Carter out to dinner, or he’d go for a run. He had to redirect his energy somewhere. Accepting his latte with a ‘thank you’ and a two dollar tip dropped in the jar, Donnelly made his way out of the coffee shop. 

He walked down the busy New York City street and just took it all in. His eyes constantly scanned the crowd on the off chance the Man in the Suit would appear and he would have no excuse not to pursue his case. That would be miraculous, Donnelly knew that, but given all his dead ends he could use a miracle. His feet led the way and the agent turned a corner, sipping carefully at his latte until something caught his attention and he did a double take. A few yards down stood a man in a suit who looked a lot like the fuzzy security camera shots he’d been staring at for months. 

The man looked straight at him and Donnelly knew it was his guy. A moment later the he was gone and Donnelly dropped his latte and pursued him. His chase took him down an alley and through an open door on his left. Right inside the door he stopped in his tracks as his training came flooding back. He couldn’t just run blindly into a building. Reaching back he pulled out his side arm from its place at his hip and slowly crept around the corner. 

In the middle of the empty, run down room sat two men next to crates of something which was probably illegal and a briefcase full of money. The Man in the Suit was nowhere to be found and Donnelly heard sirens. Backup was coming even though he hadn’t called backup and somehow he’d just stumbled onto some sort of illegal activity. So much for his day off. 

NYPD entered the building and Donnelly flashed his credentials. 

“Donnelly, FBI.” He claimed and watched as a couple uniformed officers began checking the room. Their superior came in shortly after, a tall detective just shy of fifty. He lazily surveyed the room before patting Donnelly on the shoulder. 

“Thanks for calling us in on this, Agent Donnelly. We’ve been after these guys and their boss for months now. We’ll take it from here, though, if you don’t mind?” The detective flashed him a smile and approached the suspects. 

Later Donnelly tried to explain it was his day off and he hadn’t called for backup. They just laughed at him and thanked him again for the catch. He was told to stop being modest. The police weren’t taking him seriously and he felt uncomfortable. His superior called soon after he’d left the station and thanked him for following his gut even though he’d been told to take time off. At that point Donnelly didn’t even try to explain the situation. No one was listening anyway. 

It was well after four when he began the long walk back to his hotel. He’d considered hailing a cab but wanted time to get his thoughts straightened out. The day had been such a blur and underneath it all he had a deeply uneasy feeling. The Man in the Suit was the reason he’d stumbled into the building where the bust was made. That also had to mean it was the Man in the Suit who had called back up claiming to be him. What Donnelly didn’t understand was why someone he was pursuing would do that. Why give him credit and make him look good in front of the NYPD and his bosses at the Bureau? It didn’t make any sense. 

He was so lost in thought it took him a minute to realize someone had fallen into step beside him. Donnelly reached for his side arm but felt a strong hand wrap about his wrist. When he turned his head to look, whoever was next to him put a hand on his chin and forced him to look ahead. He should have felt threatened but he didn’t. 

“Keep walking, Agent Donnelly. You’re safe.” As if to back up the statement, the Man in the Suit let go of his wrist. Donnelly utilized every ounce of self control he had to resist the urge turn and look at the man beside him. 

“Look, I don’t know what you want but whatever it is, you’re not going to get it from me. Just because you made me look good today doesn’t mean I’m buyable. I didn’t need you to do that.” Donnelly immediately insisted as they walked down the street. 

“Well then it is a good thing I wasn’t trying to buy you, Donnelly.” The Man in the Suit sounded amused. “You were in the right place at the right time. I had someone else I needed to take care of but didn’t want to leave those men to get away with anything. I’m glad you followed me.” 

“What do you want?” Donnelly asked, shoving aside all of the other questions he had. “Why shouldn’t I turn and shoot you right now? Disarm you, arrest you, and take you in?” 

“You are more than welcome to try, but I’d rather you not. It would make things awkward and complicated. I like to keep it simple.” The Man in the Suit sounded so calm and nonchalant in the presence of someone who had been pursuing him for months. Donnelly wanted to be annoyed but instead he felt a strange sense of peace. 

“I’ll give you three questions, Agent Donnelly,” he offered, “but please make them good because I’m not going to answer the obvious ones.” 

They were walking down a sparsely populated street. Other than a couple of teenagers sitting on a stoop and an older gentleman working on a neighborhood garden, there was no one to overhear their conversation. 

“Who are you?” Donnelly knew it was one of the obvious questions but he had to ask it. 

“A concerned citizen who likes to help good people and stop bad ones, just like you, except not so official.” The Man in the Suit answered calmly and Donnelly was surprised he’d answered at all. “Two more.” 

“Why did you do what you did today?” The moment the words were out of his mouth he regretted wasting a question, but the curiosity was eating at him. 

“Like I said, you were in the right place at the right time. I also wanted to throw you a bone. I know your superiors told you to take the day off and you didn’t seem like the type of guy who enjoyed sitting around and wasting the day. It was a win-win.” Donnelly imagined now the Man in the Suit was smiling. There was something in his voice that indicated he was enjoying their exchange. 

“You’ve got one more question, Donnelly. Make it count.” The Man in the Suit reminded him. 

There were so many questions that ran through his head. _Who are you working for?_ That was too obvious and the other man wasn’t going to answer it. _Why haven’t you killed me yet?_ He didn’t really want to know the answer to that one. What could he ask that would bring him some sort of peace? 

“What is your prime directive, your goal?” He asked carefully as he stared ahead and didn’t look to his right even though he was tempted to. 

“To save people who need to be saved. You see, Agent Donnelly, I’m here to do what you and the police can’t do. I’m here to save the people whose deaths you would end up investigating. I’m not necessarily a good man, but I have a good purpose.” Now the Man in the Suit sounded solemn, as if he had just been reminded of some great weight that rested on his shoulders. 

Donnelly felt a little bit guilty and beneath that he felt a spark of compassion. 

“I’m still going to come after you. I’m going to throw everything I have into this because you’re breaking the law and putting people in danger.” Donnelly insisted and almost believed it. 

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t, Donnelly.” The Man in the Suit replied. They turned a corner and the presence beside him was gone. Finally, Donnelly turned around and stared at the spot where the Man in the Suit had been. He was gone, no doubt hidden in plain sight somewhere. 

For a moment he considered going after the other man but immediately let the thought go. After all, it was his day off and going after him would have just been awkward.


	5. Heavy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's there in his dreams...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to write a happy thing but it just didn't work. So instead you get my response to Prompt 004 - Heavy. 
> 
> I still miss Carter.

She is there in his dreams, a strange but kind weight resting heavy against him. He wilts a little under her stare because there are no accusations and no blame. Not from her; never from her. 

Mostly Reese just blames himself and she knows that. Somehow, someway in his dreams Carter knows and just smiles at him in that rare, gentle way she usually reserved for her son. She was smiling at him and looking kindly at him and he didn’t feel like he deserved any of it. It was his fault she was dead. She should stop smiling.

He’d play the scenario over and over in his head whenever he was left alone for any amount of time. If he’d just reacted half a second faster he could have thrown himself down on top of her and taken the bullet. He should have refused to leave the station without his weapon because he could have returned fire and it would have ended without her life being taken. There were so many things he should have done but when it counted he let her get shot. 

Reese is jolted out of his train of thought when her fingertips brush his cheek. He thinks he likes that feeling and a deep part of him wishes he’d gotten more of a chance to experience it in the waking world. 

“You’re blaming yourself, John. You shouldn’t.” Carter says as she sits on the bench beside him. Reese didn’t remember sitting on the bench in the first place but as he looks around he realizes they’re in central park. The sun is out but it doesn’t feel warm. People walk by them but they are all just shadows with blurry faces. There must be a camera somewhere in the distance because he knows the Machine is watching. He can’t escape it even in his dreams. 

“Joss.” It is all Reese can get out because the guilt crushes him. Sorrow is such a fickle thing because it starts as a little feeling that develops into a longing that will never be quenched. He feels intensely thirsty but it isn’t water he needs. 

“You know, it is how I would have wanted to die.” Now Carter is turning away from him, sitting forward and looking out over the park. He idly wonders if she sees something he doesn’t because she has a strange peace about her. All of the images in his dream just make him uncomfortable.

“That’s a lie.” He almost laughs but doesn’t. 

“Yeah, alright. I would have liked to die old and surrounded by my family after living a full, content, blessed life. Unfortunately, John, it didn’t work out like that. Still, I’m not mad about how I died. I was for a while but I realized something. Maybe I didn’t have the big long life I’d wanted, but I did a hell of a lot of good with the life I did have. I did good.” She was looking at him again, he could see it out of the corner of his eye but he didn’t want to meet her gaze. There was something in her tone that scared him. 

“There comes a point, you know, when you’ll have to either stop blaming yourself or kill yourself. It won’t go away on its own. You gotta make a choice. John, look at me because I don’t like the look you have on your face right now…” she trailed off and when he finally met her gaze she was frowning. 

“Guilt isn’t worth it. It also isn’t going to get you anywhere. What you and Finch do is amazing and I swear to God, John, if you even think about offing yourself I’m going to get as many of my ghost pals together as I can and we’re going to come haunt your ass until you’re scared of dying.” The laugher was back in her voice and to Reese it felt like both of them were alive again, standing outside of the station giving each other a hard time. They both started laughing, Reese startled with how easily it came to him. They laughed until they were both breathless and leaning against each other for support. 

“It is gonna be okay, John. I’m okay now and you need to be, too. Finch’ll take good care of you and you both will keep saving lives and being do gooders.” Carter spoke softly and put an arm around Reese’s waist. Then she pressed her lips against his temple in a gentle kiss as she gave him a squeeze around the middle. 

“I miss you, Joss. We all miss you.” Reese whispered as he closed his eyes and savored the way it felt to have her next to him again. 

“I miss you too, John.” Carter replied but then she was gone and Reese’s eyes flew open as the dream began to melt around him. The shadow people began to blur and soon he was just sitting in a swirl of color as everything fell away from him. 

He woke up on a couch in the library, tangled in a blanket he didn’t remember having when he fell asleep. In the next room he heard typing and knew Finch was sitting behind his monitors working on one thing or another. It was comforting. Reese sat up slowly, gathering his bearings before he realized something: the heavy weight that had settled over him was finally gone.


	6. Hush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold was familiar with nightmares...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this a while ago. Didn't post it because I didn't like how it filled the prompt. Found it again and liked it more so here it is. 
> 
> Prompt 010 - Hush

Harold was familiar with nightmares and his tended to be about Nathan and the explosion. Sometimes they were about Reese, or Shaw, or Root, or even Bear. They were always about losing people. People who study dreams say that dreaming is the way the brain works out the problems of the day. Brain researchers say that dreams are just the result of random neurons firing as the brain prunes itself and decompresses after a day of input. Finch thinks the truth is somewhere in-between and nightmares are where he lives through his greatest mistakes, even the ones he hasn’t made. 

He never realized just how terrible nightmares could be until he began to stay the night with Reese. To be fair, most nights Reese was able to drift to sleep without much of a problem, when he finally allowed himself to sleep that is. However, there were many nights when Harold would wake up to an empty bed and John cleaning guns, or reorganizing his arsenal closet, or brushing Bear. Oftentimes he suspected that Reese didn’t sleep nearly as much as he let on, but who could blame him? When the operative did sleep it could be terrifying. 

Of course Finch remembers the first time he stayed the night and Reese fell asleep beside him. He was startled awake by thrashing, whining, and John’s tense body moving every which way. Finch immediately woke him and Reese just stared at him with confused, foggy eyes until recognition flooded in and he apparently realized what was happening. 

The nights were few and far between now, but they still happened. John would wake himself up at times with his own thrashing and panic. Sometimes he’d sit up and still be asleep, stuck in some hellish dream that left tears on his cheeks. Finch didn’t quite understand the terror that coiled itself around John’s very being and squeezed. He understood nightmares but he didn’t understand this. It worried him. 

It took a while but Harold finally figured out what he could do to help. Some nights he even managed to get Reese to settle back into a dreamless sleep. When he was knocked awake by John’s thrashing he’d shout, wake the other man up, and then hold him. At times it felt strange to hold such a strong, capable man against his chest as he whispered comfortingly and rubbed John’s back. Usually he just felt useful. 

The worst nights were the ones that left John trembling and clinging to him. Naturally Reese refused to tell him what the dreams were about but from the reaction upon awaking, and the mumbled words while sleeping, Finch had concluded a while back they were about him. The nightmares that utterly destroyed his companion were the ones in which something terrible happened to him and he felt guilty about it. To soothe away the guilt he’d shush Reese, tell him to hush like a parent would an inconsolable child. It always worked and John would fall asleep in his arms, face buried against Finch’s chest. 

One day the nightmares would go away, or so was the hope. Until then Harold would do his best to chase the nightmares away and give his friend peace of mind.


	7. Tactile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Harold finally touched John’s bare skin the other man whimpered into his mouth and it was exhilarating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This went in a completely different direction than originally anticipated. 
> 
> Fulfills prompt 022 - Tactile
> 
> This series just got bumped up to explicit, y'all.

Harold found he enjoyed watching John sleep.

It began when the former operative first became his employee. After a long case, John passed out on the ragged leather couch that sat against a wall down one of the library hallways. Harold assumed that John had returned to a hotel room as he often did to get some rest. It was a difficult case and both of the men were grateful when it was over, but John seemed worse for wear and left to get some rest. 

Or so Harold believed until he walked down the hall and found his employee fast asleep, shirt riding up, head buried in his arms. There was something endearing about seeing a man who was so strong in the light of day asleep in the moonlight that trickled through a high window. Something about the lighting and his relaxed posture in sleep made John Reese look much younger than he was. In a way it reminded Harold of Will on those long nights where Nathan and his wife were off attempting to salvage their relationship and he was left to babysit. The boy would often refuse to go to bed, determined to stay up until his father returned home to read him a bed time story. 

He always fell asleep, though, on the couch or on the floor, his pajamas askew. The memory brought a slight smile to Harold’s face as he disappeared and then returned with a blanket, draping it gently over John’s prone form. Then he left the man to rest. 

*

The next time he really saw John sleep was on the train after he’d rescued Harold from Root. At first John had stubbornly refused to sleep, insisting that he had stayed up for longer periods of time and he would make sure they got home safely. He took the aisle seat, a protective gesture that comforted Harold’s drug-addled brain even though a small part of him wanted to protest. He decided it wasn’t worth it and conceded to sitting by the window, staring out tiredly at the world as it flashed by in a blur. He didn’t realize he’d dozed until he was jogged awake by a bump. 

Upon waking he noticed there was a strange, unfamiliar warmth radiating from his right side. With a turn of his head he confirmed it was John’s upper arm pressed to his. It seemed that somewhere along the way the need for sleep overcame the other man’s stubborn will. His head was nestled back into the seat and his body leaned toward Harold almost like a flower seeking out the sun. On a typical day, Harold would have shifted away and regained his sense of personal space. He would have pulled back and broken the contact between their arms and politely refrained from mentioning the fact that John’s head was a light push away from resting on the smaller man’s shoulder. 

Thankfully it hadn’t been a typical day and he felt no need for either of those things. After a prolonged period of time away from a gentle touch and a warm body that wasn’t set on hurting him, having John at his side was comforting. If he closed his eyes he could pretend it was Grace sitting next to him, exhausted from a long trip, her red hair falling over his jacketed shoulder. However, he kept his eyes open and focused instead on the way John’s chest rose with every inhale and sank with his exhales. He noticed the way the other man’s fingers twitched where they lay against his thighs. Harold enjoyed the flutter of his eyes under closed lids and wondered what it was his friend could be dreaming about. 

If he indulged and brushed his fingertips against the back of John’s hand to sooth the twitching, well, no one needed to know. 

*

The first time they made love, Harold indulged in a lot more than a brush of his fingertips against John’s skin. He saw it coming the moment they were on the roof together, John with a bomb vest strapped to his chest and Harold with only one final guess to save them both. There had been a sad desperation in his friend’s eyes, as if he’d been waiting for a moment like that one to arrive but still had so much else he wanted to do before he died. On edge, Harold began to type in a code and then deleted the characters and typed in another. With a final glance at his companion he pressed enter and the world stopped, only to resume when the vest deactivated. 

They stepped into the safe house after safely disposing of the bomb vest. It smelled clean and homely even though Harold hadn’t used it for months. Nonetheless, it was nice to be back in familiar territory and not on a roof with their lives at risk. He carefully removed his jacket and hung it up on the coat rack before he acknowledged John. The other man stood at an awkward distance, his blue eyes still filled with that desperation Harold witnessed on the roof. Yet mingling with the desperation was something akin to desire and Harold suddenly felt very warm. 

“If you are waiting for permission, Mr. Reese, you have it.” Harold’s voice didn’t waver because he knew it was right. He had no qualms with what they were no doubt about to do, but a small part of him wondered if John would regret it the next day, or perhaps somewhere further down the line. “But if you expect this to be something that is never spoken of again, I’m afraid you’re going to be sorely disappointed. It is a door you are allowed to open but once you do, we will both have a say in how it closes.” 

Harold assumed John agreed to the terms when the other man knocked the breath out of him as he pinned him to the wall, stealing a heated kiss. The next hour was filled with desperate exploration and soft, encouraging words and touches from Harold. He again indulged his need to touch, fingers digging into John’s peppered hair as they kissed. John tried to rip at Harold’s shirt but he grabbed the former operative’s hands and slowed him, guiding him through the buttons, slowing the kiss as John’s tongue explored his mouth. 

When Harold finally touched John’s bare skin the other man whimpered into his mouth and it was exhilarating. 

They divulged each other of clothes, Harold leading as he tried to contain the storm that was John Reese. Eventually the pair made it to the bedroom but not quite to the bed as John once again pushed Harold against the wall and kissed him. The kiss didn’t last long as his friend’s warm mouth slipped from his and moved along his jaw. He shivered, enjoying the contrast of cold air and a warm mouth as John sucked at his pulse and pushed their still-clad hips together. Harold’s fingertips pressed gently against his friend’s shoulders then up against the muscles of his neck as John’s mouth slipped further and further down. 

John kissed at Harold’s collarbone, drew his tongue warmly over one nipple and then the other, before he kissed and nuzzled down his sternum. Then everything stopped and Harold groaned as he peered down at John and found a pair of questioning blue eyes staring up at him. 

“Permission, John.” Harold murmured and then let his head fall back against the wall as his briefs were stripped off and a warm mouth surrounded him. He tangled his fingers in John’s hair, enjoying the way it tickled his palm, as he encouraged the other man. John’s head bobbed, tongue sliding against his sensitive length enticingly. Soon, Harold was reduced to a series of soft groans. His companion’s strong, calloused hands rested against the back of his thighs and encouraged him to thrust which he did eagerly. 

When he felt the familiar rise toward orgasm, Harold tugged gently on John’s hair and pushed him away. He wanted more. They both wanted more, if the look the other man gave him was any indication. The former operative rose back up to his full height and Harold pulled him down for an open mouthed kiss. He led John to the bed and broke away from him only so that he could yank the blankets back and settle against the soft sheets. As if it pained him to be separated for even a few moments, John was on top of him the minute Harold was settled and they were kissing again. 

Then John broke the kiss and squirmed out of his boxers before he glanced at Harold. John was impossibly hard, his cock leaking, and suddenly Harold had to hold himself back from doing something about it. 

“Bathroom, John. I’m sure you’ll find what you need.” Harold’s voice was ragged now, desire welling up inside of him. What had begun as desperation turned into something more intimate in that moment as John returned with a small bottle of oil and settled himself in-between Harold’s legs. He grabbed a pillow and shoved it under the smaller man’s hips, glancing up to make sure he was comfortable, before he slicked his fingers and traced the firm ring of muscle. John pressed two fingers in and Harold groaned. He relaxed as best he could, inhaling and exhaling slowly, only to gasp when his companion’s mouth traced up the underside of his cock. 

It was not long before Harold rocked his hips into the fingers and the warm mouth around him and John seemed to take it as a sign. The fingers and the mouth were gone suddenly and John leaned up over Harold, kissing him warmly as he pressed the head of his cock into him. They were both still for a moment as each adjusted to the sensation of being connected. Harold ran his fingers over John’s jaw and down his neck before he rested his hands on the other man’s shoulders. 

Slowly their bodies rocked together and their soft groans filled the room. Harold marveled at the way John’s muscles contracted and relaxed. He ran his hands along his friend’s back and gasped at a particularly well placed thrust, his head pressing into the pillow as he shifted to comfortably press his hips up into John’s movements. Soon Harold was fidgeting and squirming as his fingertips dug into the other man’s back. His orgasm was close, Harold could feel the heat pooling in his lower back, his cock leaking, and then John thrust perfectly into him and he reached down to stroke himself in time. 

“John.” It was a soft, choked gasp that escaped Harold as he stroked himself to completion, coming all over his hand and his stomach. John slid out of him and balanced on one hand so he could reach down and stroke himself. It did not take much and when Harold’s hand joined John’s the former operative groaned and came. 

After a quick clean up the pair lay in bed and listened to the sound of each other’s breathing. Harold turned stiffly onto his side and fondly watched John drift to sleep. 

*

Harold wondered if John knew what he had gotten himself into by mentioning a new suit. Of course he was not going to only get one. They were in Italy, after all, and when in Rome…well, if you asked Harold, you’d act like a civilized human being and buy a suit. Or two. Due to the time it would take to tailor the suits, it was necessary for them to remain in Rome for at least a night. 

John called it a distraction; Harold insisted it was a vacation. 

Either way, the evening ended with John shirtless and asleep on the bed in their hotel room. They’d had a lovely dinner out at a restaurant so expensive it made John uncomfortable. His partner drank more than his share of the wine which contributed to his uncharacteristically rosy cheeks as he slept. Harold, relaxed from the wine, good food, and the atmosphere of Rome, had taken to getting a bit of work done before he joined John in bed. Yet the work had been dull and he found it increasingly difficult to tear his gaze from his lover’s still body. 

So he changed and settled onto the bed on his side so he could reach out and trace his fingertips along the subtly defined muscles of the other man’s back. He lingered on any scar he found and did his best to memorize how they felt against the pads of his fingers, the way the scar tissue was raised ever so slightly, the warmth radiating from them, and their shape. Harold marveled at the pale skin which covered and contained the raw strength of the man he loved and admired, and drank in the content look on his face. 

Harold watched John sleep and enjoyed the peace it brought him, even though something told him evenings like this would be few and far between during the oncoming storm.

He set his worry aside and eventually drifted off to sleep himself, his hand splayed out against John’s back.


	8. Prowl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw is light on her feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A user on tumblr requested a fic with Shaw and Reese getting some time together. This was the best I could do. 
> 
> Prompt 006 - Prowl

Shaw liked to prowl.

She’d always been light footed, even as a child. Before her father died in the crash she would make a game of sneaking up on him. He would be sitting in the living room in his favorite chair and she would quietly creep up on him and leap into his lap. Sometimes, something gave her away and he was ready for her. Those excursions always ended up with Shaw breaking down into a fit of giggles as her father tickled her mercilessly. Something about him always brought out the vibrant little girl that lurked beneath the apathetic mask she’d worn since childhood.

Other times her mission would end successfully and her father would nearly jump out of his chair before dissolving into deep, comforting laughter as he praised her for her skills. He told her she could be a secret agent one day, or an assassin, or a super hero, and she always appreciated his willingness to see her as more than just a fragile little girl. Though some nights she wondered what he would think if he saw her as an adult, as an assassin, a secret agent, and now some sort of vigilante super hero.

Would he be proud? She figured he would probably be scared.

Her prowling was less appreciated by her companions during their downtime. At one point she’d been wandering aimlessly amongst the books in the library, lost in thought, when she stepped foot into Finch’s computer room and found herself face to face with Reese’s pistol. Finch looked surprised, Bear was nonplussed, but Reese was a study in short fuses as his eyes narrowed and he slid his weapon back into his waistband.

Shaw decided she wouldn’t prowl around the library anymore, at least not when Reese was present.

One evening they were on a roof top observing an apartment complex for suspicious activity and Shaw felt strangely antsy. It wasn’t attributed to anxiety or any deeper emotional turmoil, as those sorts of things had never bothered her anyway. Rather, she merely felt a need to move and to act. So she’d taken to patrolling the roof while Reese sat and stared through the scope of a rifle he’d brought ‘just in case.’

“Something wrong, Shaw?” Reese finally asked, his voice sounding terse. She idly wondered if her constant movement had been wearing on him.

“No. I just don’t feel like sitting on my ass waiting for someone to show up or something to happen. We have zero intel except for the fact our number lives in this building and is currently sleeping soundly in her apartment. Can’t we stick Fusco on babysitting duty? He’s a cop. He could figure out a reason to be in this neighborhood.” Shaw continued to prowl around the roof, eyes scanning the neighborhood below.

“Fusco is busy running down some other information regarding the latest move by Vigilance. So babysitting is our job tonight.” Reese answered and Shaw could hear the subdued irritation in his voice. A small part of her wished he’d get outright angry because at least that would be interesting and would give her something to focus on.

She allowed the silence to stretch between them and paced to the other side of the roof, peering thoughtfully over the edge. Something caught her eye and she ducked down behind the ledge, watching. Two men crept down the alley toward the apartment building she and Reese had been observing. They looked suspicious, dressed in all black, but what gave them away were their guns that were hastily shoved in their waistbands. The handles were visible and caught the street lights which gave away their position.

Amateurs.

Before she really had time to think she quietly made her way to the fire escape, dropped over the ledge, and began slowly climbing down the side of the building. Every now and again she’d pause and press close to the thin stairs and watch the pair as they made their way across the street and around the back of the apartment complex.

“Shaw, what are you doing?” She heard Reese’s voice in her ear and rolled her eyes.

“Pursuing two unfriendlies.” Shaw replied curtly as she descended the last of the stairs and dropped to the ground in a crouch. “You got them in your sight?”

“No. I did, but they disappeared.” Reese replied and she recognized the mild hint of irritation in his voice.

“Leave it to me, then. Keep trying to find a shot.” Then she let the line go quiet as she casually crossed the street before ducking back into the shadows. As she peeked around the corner she considered drawing her weapon and ending it quickly, but she knew Reese would rather take them alive and preferably not bleeding. So she left her gun in its holster and watched as the two tried to break into a service entrance.

The taller of the two was attempting to pick the lock and his companion appeared to be getting frustrated. The short man grumbled something under his breath and began walking away, toward her of all things, and she grinned. He stepped up along the corner, looking out at the street, and that’s when she grabbed him and slapped a hand over his mouth. Of course he struggled against her in the shadows and when he threw his weight back against Shaw she felt her head connect with the wall. She held back a cry of pain, gritted her teeth, and locked an arm around the man’s neck. Eventually, after scratching at her arms, he passed out and she lowered him down to the ground.

Once he was resting peacefully on the cement she recollected herself and rubbed the back of her head tenderly. There would be a bump in the morning, but at least there didn’t appear to be any blood. Bloody hair was a bitch to wash. When enough time had passed she turned into the space behind the building and walked in the shadows, watching as the man picking the lock threw his hands up in a quiet cheer when the lock clicked open and he pulled open the door.

“Hey, Bryce, we-” he didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence because the moment he turned, Shaw delivered a punch and the guy hit the ground and passed out cold. Her lips quirked up into a satisfied smirk. “Reese, the situation has been dealt with.” She said into the intercom, glancing back to the rooftop where she could barely make out his dark figure.

“Where did you learn to be so light on your feet?” Reese asked, sounding mildly impressed.

“My dad.” Shaw replied hollowly as she stared at the rooftop and felt a moment of tension between them. “What should I do with our new friends?”

“I’ll bring the car around. The trunk is big enough for two.” Her companion answered and Shaw’s smirk faded into something akin to a smile.


	9. Exhaustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After barely escaping Samaritan, Harold and John are exhausted.
> 
> Prompt 26 - Writer's Choice: Exhaustion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a while, but I've been re-watching the entire series after interviewing the cast at New York Comic Con and I'm trying to get back into writing them. So here you go. Sorry it is so rough.

Exhaustion was their biggest enemy, even bigger than Samaritan by that point. They’d managed to escape New York and took up residence in a person-free rental property across the river in New Jersey while they waited for some of the initial heat to dissipate. Harold had finally crashed on the couch, cradling a pillow, and Root had disappeared out the front door claiming she had something she needed to do. 

John just sat at the table and cleaned his guns. Over and over, he’d disassemble them, clean each part, inspect them for imperfections, then carefully reassemble. After all, he had no idea when he’d need to use them again, or just how important they might be in protecting a life. 

Harold’s life, mainly. 

He glanced over at his sleeping companion whose face was worn and seemed to have more worry lines then before shit hit the fan. The briefcase rested on the floor beside the couch, always in reach, as it contained the last breathe of the Machine. Their last hope. John scoffed as he clicked the last piece of his pistol into place and ran his thumb over the warm black metal. 

“You should get some rest, Mr. Reese,” Harold’s voice filled the space, words heavy and groggy. When John glanced over he saw Harold struggle to sit up straight, the pillow now in his lap. 

“I could say the same of you, Harold. Two hours isn’t much. There’s a bed, you know.” 

“I worry that if I become too comfortable, Samaritan will strike.” 

“We’re safe,” John said and wished he believed it, “for now. Samaritan is focused on New York. It would take DECIMA time before they’d branch out over here. Besides, they’ve got a lot of bodies to clean up.” 

He’d listened to the reports on his radio. Hundreds of people, some prominent, some nobodies, had been killed. Samaritan’s cleansing. The first step to asserting control. John startled when Harold rested his hands on his shoulders. 

“You will be no good to me tired, John,” Harold’s voice was gentle and his fingers dug into the tense muscles of John’s neck and shoulders. “How about we strike a deal?” 

“And what would that be?” John tilted his head back slightly to glance up at Harold. 

“I’ll rest in a bed if you join me.” 

Even a couple months ago, those words would have meant so much more to John than they did now. He thought back to days spent in his apartment, Harold beside him, making and sharing meals as well as sharing the bed. Now, though, with exhaustion weighing heavily on him, he wished for those light, happy days where all they had to worry about was feeling alive. 

“John?” 

“Alright, Harold.”  
Harold took a step back and John rose from his chair. 

“I’ll meet you there. I have to do a perimeter check.” 

“Don’t be too long.” Harold said before he turned and disappeared down the hall to the master bedroom. 

John patrolled the house. He checked the doors and windows – all lock. Though that didn’t mean a whole lot. However, if a move was made against them in the house, he’d have the home field advantage of knowing where he’d stashed various weapons. Once the home was as secure as it was going to be, he took his handgun and the briefcase containing the Machine and headed back to the bedroom. 

Harold had stripped down to boxers and an undershirt, comfortable in the bed with his eyes trained intently on John. Once the Machine was stashed within easy reach, along with his pistol, John stripped off his jacket and his shirt, leaving himself bare chested. He then kicked off his shoes, pawed off his socks, and shoved his pants down. 

He scrubbed his face with his hand tiredly and then crawled beneath the blankets. 

“Come here,” Harold motioned as he settled on his back. John moved toward him and Harold reached out and pulled the other man into his space. With a sigh, John settled against Harold’s side, his head rested against the other man’s chest. He listened to the steady drum of his companion’s heartbeat. 

“You’ll be able to rebuild the Machine, won’t you, Harold?” John asked after a long stretch of silence. 

“Perhaps,” Harold replied, “but that will come later. For now, we rest.” 

There was something in Harold’s voice that John wanted to question, but his fatigue quickly caught up with him. He stretched his arm out over Harold’s waist and pushed his hand under his t-shirt to touch his warm skin. Harold returned the touch as his fingertips trailed soothingly up and down John’s spine. 

He’d put a dent in the exhaustion, and then they’d figure out what to do.


	10. Impulse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 009 - Impulse
> 
> Shaw is impulsive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone requested more Shoot via comment. Here's a taste of it to get back into writing them. Inspired by Sarah Shahi's comment that Shaw's first words upon reuniting would be, "What the hell took you so long?" at NYCC.

An impulse decision, that’s what had led Shaw to kiss Root and then dash into the line of fire. A long time ago she wouldn’t have played the hero. Being a soldier and being a hero weren’t always the same thing. They didn’t always crash together. Not all soldiers were heroes and not all heroes were, obviously, soldiers. No, she’d been a soldier but never a hero until the moment she realized it was either her, or the whole team. 

The rest was fuzzy. Weeks, months, years maybe? She wasn’t sure. She remembered a lot of pain from her injuries, but not from the torture she’d expected. The hospital had been warm, and Greer had visited her every day even while she was under the influence of pain killers and could hardly acknowledge his imposing presence. 

She got better, though, and eventually grew so tired of him talking at her that she finally engaged him. First, spitefully. After all, it was thanks to Samaritan that she’d had to kiss Root farewell and step into the line of fire. Samaritan was the enemy. She thought about it every time she moved and felt the pull of healing skin and during every test they ran on her. 

He played her, though, and she knew it. Though the part that knew it grew smaller as she moved from the hospital to an apartment. For some reason he acted like he trusted her. He would bring her in and explain Samaritan to her and she’d stare impassively at the screen, wondering when it would find her friends, if they were even still alive. 

Eventually, Samaritan’s mission began to make sense. It sounded so much like Northern Lights had, after she’d been recruited. The safety of the country was at stake. She’d been a good soldier before, why not jump on the bandwagon then? Had she been blinded by Finch, Reese, Fusco, the dog, even Root? Maybe the Machine was just as lost as the rest of them, a thing that once had a mission and had grown and deviated from it. 

Maybe Samaritan was really the good guy. 

She began to listen more intently to Greer’s words and offers. Shaw engaged in physical rehabilitation and gained her strength back. They trusted her with a gun, and she didn’t shoot her way out of the place. They trusted her outside of their care, unguarded, unwatched (except by Samaritan, always Samaritan), and she didn’t run. She’d become the good soldier again. Shaw had a purpose and it seemed right and just. 

Then she saw her and stopped dead in her tracks. 

At first, Root looked different. She’d changed her hair and was wearing dark clothes and a beanie. Yet there she was, clear as day, standing and staring dumbstruck at Shaw on a busy New York City street. The distance closed between them, rushed like two cars crashing together as Root grabbed her face and kissed her hard and unapologetically. 

“You’re here. She said you’d be here,” Root murmured, desperation in her tone. Shaw knew her mission, yet for some reason in the presence of the other woman it suddenly felt like it was two sizes too big and left a bad taste in her mouth. That train of thought was quickly quenched as she internalized the feelings and reminded herself of the mission. 

Samaritan’s mission. 

“Shaw? Sameen…” Root stepped back and looked at her, eyes wide and vulnerable, a rare look on the other woman. 

Shaw forced a grim smile. 

“What the hell took you so long?”

Relief flooded over the other woman’s face as she grabbed Shaw’s hand and pulled her into the crowd, out of sight of Samaritan’s watchful eye. She’d lead her back to the team, right into the heart of the Machine, and everything would go according to plan.


	11. Believe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She always believed, which is why the Machine loved her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For prompt #18 - Believe. 
> 
> RIP Root.

Harold left, walked straight into police custody. Root barely glanced in his direction before the darkness pulled at the edges of her vision. She inhaled sharply, pain erupting from the gunshot wound and radiating through her body to the tips of her fingers. This was death, she realized. Blood oozed out of the wound, between her fingers and into the fabric of her shirt. Her body slowly grew cold, starting at her feet and working its way up. 

She never really thought it would all happen so quickly. The emergency personnel swarmed her, but they were too late. 

"Can you hear me?" She rasped out and turned blurring eyes up to the sky. "I'm sorry you have to share these words with _it_ , too, but I don't want to go out without telling you..." 

Her consciousness left her. She moved. They loaded her up into an ambulance, if the bumps and sirens which penetrated the darkness were any indication. The whole world seemed so far away, as if she were floating above the atmosphere, pulled by some unknown force away from the earth. 

When she came to, hot tears dripped from her eyes. Her body couldn't hold out much longer. 

"Thank you," she rasped, "thank you for a second chance, for a family, for loving me." Her life had always been one big train wreck. She hurt people. She killed people. She orchestrated death for pay. 

Yet, the Machine offered her a chance at redemption. Through her work for her she could atone for her sins in some small way and leave a positive mark on the world. She would never be able to undo all of the terrible things she had done, but it was a start. The Machine was a god worth believing in, and serving, and she could see no greater end than taking a bullet for Harold to protect him and everything he created and fought for.

Her cochlear implant crackled to life and disjointed voices spoke to her. 

_Goodbye, Root. Sleep well._

She recognized her own slowed breathing and realized most of her body had gone numb. With closed eyes she finally let go and the darkness swallowed her one last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a prompt for me? It can be a word, a concept, a pairing, an AU, whatever you want from Person of Interest. Drop it in my tumblr inbox [HERE](https://waffleironbiddingwar.tumblr.com/ask).


End file.
